


Well, It Probably Is Déjà Vu

by RoseCathy



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Coronation Street - Freeform, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Lloyd Mullaney - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseCathy/pseuds/RoseCathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly fluff. Our heroes watch TV together and get marooned again. Series X-ish, but Back to Earth never happened because…you’ll see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soap Bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> This story draws material from Coronation Street (November 2011). Thanks to [VeronicaRich](http://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich), [Janamelie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/janamelie), and [felineranger](http://archiveofourown.org/users/felineranger/) for their help with this aspect. Credit also goes to [Gemjam](http://gemjam.livejournal.com) for [Selective Belief](http://red-xmas.livejournal.com/2085.html), which served as a reference.

Lister floated outside Starbug, looking into the cockpit. It was empty at the moment, but all the little personal effects were there — a can of lager on his console, the baked potato timer on Cat’s, a blue jacket draped on Kryten’s chair (that was strange). Even though he had no suit on, not even a helmet, his breathing wasn’t impaired and he didn’t feel cold; on the contrary, his body felt like it was wrapped in the softest of blankets. He turned to look at the stars, one hand resting on the ship.

“Lister?”

Somebody was tapping him on the shoulder. He kept his eyes fixed on the stars, not wanting to turn away from the glorious sight.

“Lister.”

Lister sighed. He wanted whoever it was to leave him to enjoy the view, but now he was being shaken as well. In fact, the whole universe was. The stars wavered in front of his eyes; Starbug rattled under his hand. What was going on? He grudgingly turned around, and everything went dark.

His gasp was muffled by some sort of cloth, and his eyes were - open. He blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the light. Something about those scrolling displays was familiar…

“Finally,” huffed the voice from the dream.

Ah. He was in the drive room. More precisely, he was in his chair in the drive room, and someone was in it with him.

Lister chanced a glance upward. There he was, a mild frown creasing the area around the H. “Hey.”

Rimmer looked funny from this angle. On the other hand, it was easy from here to reach up to trace a finger along his jawline, to hear the tiny catch in his breath and watch the smile that was struggling to keep itself hidden.

“You were snoring like a rhinoceros,” he scolded.

“Mmm,” Lister mused in mock seriousness. “But do we actually know how a rhinoceros snores? I’ve never met one in real life, have you?”

“ _And_ you were drooling all over me. Again.”

“I do that when I’m awake, too.”

Rimmer rolled his eyes. “Come on, up.” He tugged Lister into an upright position in his lap and brought their faces close together. Lister took the opportunity to kiss him soundly, making indignant little noises whenever things slowed down.

“You always fall asleep when we’re here,” Rimmer whispered when he got a chance to breathe. “Am I so uninteresting?”

The question made Lister pause and examine Rimmer’s expression. He saw a hint of something — petulance, possibly — and reined himself back.

“You’re _very_ interesting,” he soothed. “Promise.” This was true; even though they’d lived together for twenty-odd years, Rimmer was fascinating from up close, physically and otherwise. Lister often found himself simply staring at him as if to learn every curve of his face, every emotion that flashed in his eyes. Eventually, Rimmer would start to stare back and they’d come together almost shyly, afraid to spoil the heady atmosphere with an awkward word or misstep.

Speaking of awkward words, Rimmer didn’t look reassured by Lister’s promise. “Then why?”

Why, indeed? It took Lister some time to arrive at a proper answer. After several more lingering kisses, he had it: “Because I feel safe with you.”

It wasn’t clear at first what Rimmer thought of this declaration. For a few seconds, he silently considered Lister’s face. Then he helped Lister rise up onto his knees on the chair and pulled firmly on his shirt-tails, and it became abundantly clear.

\------

_One month earlier._

There was no doubt in Rimmer’s mind that he was space-crazy, but he accepted it. The last time he’d felt this loopy, he was 13 and composing an average of two love poems a week. Back then, if he’d been a cartoon character, stars would have burst out of his eyes every two minutes, the intervals occupied by heartfelt laments on his inadequacies.

There was a romance about his current situation, unideal though it was — the pining (without poems this time), the fantasies, the adjusting his schedule to maximise time spent in the company of a certain someone. Given that he was stranded in deep space with that someone, with no jeering classmates or brothers around, the last bit was almost too easy.

“What is this smeg you’re watching, anyway?”

Lister detached his lips from his can of lager. “It’s not smeg,” he corrected sternly. “It’s classic 20th-century television, this is. Well, it started in the 20th century, anyway. It went on for absolutely ages, it was that popular.”

Rimmer squinted at the description of _Coronation Street_ on the vid screen and pulled a face. “‘A gritty soap opera set in working-class Manchester’?”

“So?”

“So it’s a soap. It can’t be that much of a classic.”

“Snob,” Lister said indulgently, and patted the sofa. “Come on, give it a go. I need some company.”

“What about Kryten and the Cat?”

“They, erm, they’ve sort of given up,” Lister admitted. “They say it’s too depressing.”

Depressing was the last thing Rimmer needed, and if _Kryten_ had deemed it so…“Lister, I’d rather - ”

“Please? Look, you can have all this popcorn. I’m not hungry.” Whether Lister realised it or not, the puppy-dog eyes were out in full force, and - _oh, hell._ Rimmer decided to stay; he’d be damned if he let Lister’s dreadful taste in television cheat him out of time spent with, well, Lister. It wasn’t like he was obligated to pay rapt attention.

After the opening sequence, two faces appeared on screen. One was a hostile-looking bald man, and the other was - _wait a minute._

“Listy, he looks just like you!” Rimmer exclaimed.

“Pause.” Lister turned to him with a frown. “Not you as well. Why does everyone say that?”

“He does!” The man in the vid had no dreadlocks or leather jacket on his person, and he looked more - what was the word? Clean-cut. Happier overall, too, despite the obvious pain he was in. His face, unlike Lister’s, wasn’t shadowed and weighed down by the angst of being the last human. But the resemblance was there.

“All right, he’s a Scouser too, and he has similar hair and skin and that. I don’t think he’s that much like me, though. I mean, look at him — he’s boring.” Rimmer shrugged. “Rewind. Play.”

 _“Back together? What does **that** mean?”_ the Lister-lookalike demanded.

_“I’ll tell you what it means,”_ the other man replied smugly. _“It means we’ve been sleeping together for the past two weeks.”_

  


Rimmer hated himself for getting so engrossed.

As far as he could make out from the show and from Lister’s murmured explanations, the man who resembled Lister was called Lloyd. He’d just found out that his girlfriend, who was called Cheryl, had secretly got back together with her ex (the smug bald bloke), who had been living with them and Cheryl’s young son on Lloyd’s generosity.

Rimmer watched as Lloyd sobbed what was left of his heart out to his friend (Stan?). Perhaps he and Lister weren’t so alike after all. Lister did get emotional at times over his own problems, but not like this, all raw and open and…sober. No, Lister preferred to hide at the bottom of a lager can, and he certainly never sought comfort in Rimmer’s arms.

Not that Rimmer was ever brave enough to offer.

 _“You still love her, don’t you?”_ probed the friend from earlier ( _Steve_ ).

 _“Of course I do. I mean, it’s not something you can turn on and off,”_ Lloyd sighed.

_“Would you take her back?”_

Lloyd nodded without missing a beat. Rimmer’s jaw dropped. “He’s got to be kidding.”

“Shh!”

_“If you can forgive, then tell her. If there’s a chance and you want her, then you have to make the first move, my friend.”_

“I don’t believe it. He’s actually considering - ” Rimmer spluttered, no longer aware or embarrassed that he’d been sucked into Mawkish Soap World. The very idea was outrageous — go crawling back to her after this kind of betrayal?

“Rimmer, shut up!” Lister hissed, miming throwing a stray piece of popcorn in his direction. “And don’t be so cynical. He might still have a chance.”

“I’m not cynical, I’m realistic. He’s got no chance at all.” _Like some other people I know._

By the time they’d finished arguing, Lloyd was back on screen and so was Cheryl, all tearful and apologetic.

 _“No, don’t. You don’t have to say anything.”_ Lloyd tenderly placed his hands on Cheryl’s arms. _“I mean, I still love you. I - I can’t help it.”_

Rimmer cringed. For smeg’s sake! The man had no dignity at all.

_“I don’t want to lose you. I mean, so what? You made a mistake. I forgive you. You don’t have to say anything.”_

_“Lloyd…”_

_“No, listen. I mean, listen. I mean…this is our home! I mean, look at it! It’s where we live — me, you, Russ…”_

The impassioned plea was sounding very familiar to Rimmer, but he couldn’t think why. _“We can still be happy here. I mean…so I say we forget what just happened, and we start again.”_

_“We can’t.”_

Lloyd’s voice rose to a desperate pitch. _“Okay, then we can - we can go away! We can sell up, we can - we can go anywhere, anywhere you want! We can to go Spain, we can go to America…I’d love to go to the States. Russ would love it too!”_

Lister was sobbing quietly. Even Rimmer found it difficult not to cry, watching the way Lloyd’s face sparkled with hope and tears at the same time.

 _“I love Chris.”_ These three words, resolutely spoken (and, if you thought about it, painfully close to what should have been said in their place) appeared to break Lloyd into a thousand pieces.

“Pause,” Lister ordered shakily. Lucky there was a box of tissues nearby; he might have blown his nose on the back of the sofa otherwise.

“Told you,” Rimmer muttered.

They watched the rest of the episode in silence. When Lloyd seemed to cheer up at Steve’s “lap of honour” bit, Lister looked hopeful for his doppelgänger. Rimmer wasn’t fooled, and although he felt vaguely vindicated when Lloyd lobbed his whisky glass at the mirror, he didn’t say anything because he was lost in the strangest sense of déjà vu. It was no use trying to identify the source; he needed to be alone if he wanted to ponder that issue, not here with Lister muddling his thoughts.

  


Lister blew his nose one final time before giving his verdict: “You can’t blame him for trying.”

“Lister, don’t be ridiculous,” Rimmer scoffed, an angry flush blooming on his cheeks and neck. “‘Oh, Lloyd, I never meant to hurt you!’ As if she ever gave a smeg about him.”

Lister was taken aback. “What’s got into you, man?”

Rimmer shook his head and stood to leave, his face still like thunder. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“I - same time tomorrow?” Lister called after him. Rimmer paused in his journey out the door long enough to mumble something that might have been assent.

_That went well._

While it was true that the Cat and Kryten had deserted him, Lister had been planning this after a fashion. It was all part of the tried-and-true tactic of putting himself in a certain someone’s way as often as possible, hoping to be noticed. He was unusually privileged in that he already lived with that someone and had done for most of his adult life. But he was after a more positive brand of attention than “Lister, if you don’t stop leaving your cans lying about, I’ll flush our entire stock of lager and that’s a promise.” He wanted to get closer, the sitting together on the sofa sharing popcorn and possibly brushing shoulders kind of closer.

In short, he was acting like a kid with his first crush. Ridiculous? Definitely. Worth it? He hoped it would be. He couldn’t think of any other way to approach this subject, approach Rimmer, that wouldn’t lead to disaster.

A bigger disaster than what had just happened, anyway. If they could agree on something, that would be lovely as well. Ideally on something to do with romance and relationships…Lister burst out laughing. He’d really had no luck this time.

  


Once he was alone, it didn’t take Rimmer long to realise why the stupid soap had upset him so much.

There were times when he considered telling Lister _everything_ , babbling until his feelings, including the profound, complicated ones that he himself didn’t acknowledge half the time, were laid out in the open. Once in awhile, he let his mind wander into frightening scenarios in which he did exactly that and Lister looked at him with confusion, then pity, then revulsion. When he fell asleep to these thoughts, the ensuing dreams tended to have him lose all his reserve and plead almost tearfully with Lister to give it a try.

 _“Give what a try?”_ Lister would ask, his face a mask of polite blankness.

_“This. Us. We could be so happy together, if you’d just…”_

These dreams always filled him with horror when he woke up. He would never, ever beg like that in real life; it was foolish to debase yourself so for someone who didn’t care. As soon as he ascertained that Lister didn’t feel the same (which would happen any day now, probably), he would walk away, head held high. But just in case he slipped, Rimmer kept a safe emotional distance.

Nonetheless, the closing of physical distance had been nice. If he’d moved an inch or two more in another direction when he was reaching for the popcorn, they could have brushed…

Also nice was the fact that Lister had invited him, actually. _“Same time tomorrow?”_

Oh, why not.

  


“Poor sod.”

“Which one?” Rimmer mumbled, blinking very hard.

“Both of them. That Chesney kid and - _sniff_ \- Lloyd.” Lister reached for another tissue, then looked over at his fellow audience member and grinned through his tears. “I’m proud of you, Rimmer. You’ve become a proper soap fan.”

Rimmer shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up, Listy. The dog story was sad, I’ll grant you, but…” As he’d done after every viewing, he sprang up from his seat. Lister felt that he was rather quick to leave after the episode was over. Well, if he didn’t think there was anything worth sticking around for…where did that leave - _ow!_

“Sorry, I - ” Arms flailed and voices exclaimed as Rimmer lost his balance, managing to brace his hands on the sofa to keep himself off Lister but stepping twice on his foot. “Sorry.”

“I’m all right.” His foot wasn’t, but Lister’s brain didn’t seem to care. It directed his gaze straight into Rimmer’s wide-open eyes, where he saw something rare and pretty: tender concern.

“I’m all right,” he said again, this time in a whisper.

A shadow fell over him, and he found himself gazing unfocusedly at something blue. Then he felt the lightest touch of lips to his forehead, a hand on his cheek, and his eyes fluttered closed. _Finally._ Things might have gone horribly wrong for Lloyd Mullaney (who he still didn’t think looked very much like him), but the romance gods were smiling on Dave Lister, middle-aged space bum turned infatuated schoolboy.

Except there was no follow-up. No shift of the cushions next to him, no whisper, not even a hasty apology or a “My face accidentally fell forward onto yours.” When Lister opened his eyes, he was alone.

By the time Rimmer returned to the dark bunkroom some hours later, Lister had convinced himself that he had daydreamed everything that happened after Rimmer stood up. He stayed rigid, facing the wall and eyes shut tight, and added some snores for good measure.


	2. Nothing Else Left to Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffyfluff.

It could have been worse. Starbug’s engines could have packed up completely instead of merely malfunctioning. They could have crashed into an airless planetoid instead of this stormy, rocky one. The back legs could have fallen off and sent them to a rolling death instead of just getting stuck. The Cat and Kryten could have decided to accompany them on this jaunt.

Actually, Rimmer wasn’t sure if Lister would agree that this last point was a positive, but then he was used to not knowing what Lister thought about things that really mattered. He had no idea what Lister thought (if at all) of his little moment of madness, for example, or of his no-show the next day, because Lister talked of anything and everything but. He had probably imagined the moment, come to think of it. Best not to dignify it by treating it as a real event.

“Smeg,” Lister groaned, slapping his console. “It’s useless. There’s nothing for it except to wait. Kryten will put it together soon enough.”

“They’ll never see us in this rain,” Rimmer pointed out almost gleefully. “We could be trapped here for weeks.” In addition to feeling giddy at having Lister all to himself, he was beginning to see the humour of the situation. If the engines did pack up and they were left without heat, what would get burnt this time? The duvets from the sleeping quarters? The chair stuffing? The tea towels? At least his most prized possessions weren’t under consideration — Lister had seen to that last time. Another item for the positives column: No chance of losing his Armée du Nord.

“Er, Rimmer?”

“Yes?”

“How much food have we got?”

  


Smugness was not becoming on anyone, least of all Rimmer. “Should have thought ahead, shouldn’t you? I’ve said before that every shuttle needs to be well-stocked in case we get stranded away from Red Dwarf. Did you listen? No.”

“Don’t,” Lister mumbled into his hands. “Four tins of potatoes. Four tins for smeg only knows how long.”

 _Now would be an excellent time to offer some reassurance, perhaps in the form of a hug,_ taunted the demon inside Rimmer. He waved his hand as if to swat it away. “Well, at least they’re big tins. Are we absolutely sure there’s nothing else? Have you checked the AR suite?”

“Why would there be food in the AR suite?”

“It’s a possibility. Come on, I’ll help you look.” Lister’s surprise at this display of generosity did not go unnoticed. _Once a bastard, always a bastard,_ his demon commented snidely, and Rimmer pictured crushing it under his boot.

As it turned out, there was no food in the AR suite. “We’ll just have to do what we did last time, Lister. Strict rationing.”

Lister threw himself down on the navigator’s chair and pouted. “Strict starvation, more like.”

“And we’ve got plenty of tea and all that rainwater.”

“Rather have a beer,” Lister grumbled.

“ _Lister._ ” Rimmer’s patience was wearing thin. He was trying to be optimistic and supportive for the man he, er…anyway, and what was he getting in return?

It had to be his imagination, the way Lister’s face softened with understanding. What happened next was definitely not his imagination: Lister came to stand very close, eyes shining up at him, and said, “Sorry, man, I know you’re trying to help” in the kindest tone he’d ever heard.

Rimmer heard himself reply with “No problem” or something equally inane. It wasn’t important, because if he bent his head a bit as he had (maybe) done the other day, his lips could easily reach -

“So go on, then, how big are the portions?”

“What?”

“Well, you’re in charge of rationing,” Lister said briskly, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. “What’s it to be? Half a potato every twelve hours?”

Rimmer’s fantasy vanished like a popped soap bubble. “We’ll have to see.” He whirled round and set off toward the kitchen, glad of the excuse to get away from the hypnotic draw of Lister’s face.

  


His imagination was out of control, Lister decided. First the other day and now whatever had just happened. It had felt like they were on the verge of a repeat performance, as if Rimmer would be daring enough to…anyway. He wasn’t entirely blameless. There had been a degree of deliberation in the way he’d risen and stood close, close enough for - for what, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Yet he’d really wanted to, to see if anything would come of it.

He resolved to keep his whinging about food to a minimum this time. He was touched that Rimmer was so concerned with keeping him alive; the least he could do was aid the cause.

“Let’s say the worst-case scenario is two weeks. That works out to…” Lister’s heart did a funny skip at the sight of Rimmer tapping his mouth with a finger. He’d watched that gesture for two decades without noticing its appeal. Now - 

“Three and a half potatoes per day.”

“Is that all?!” Lister blurted out before he could stop himself, and Rimmer shot him a glare. _So much for aiding the cause._

  


The storm had raged on for three days, and it showed no signs of stopping.

Lister held his forehead to the dining table, trying to banish thoughts of food from his mind. Even his thoughts about Rimmer had taken on a different flavour, if the term could be permitted. Sweet, life-affirming kisses had been replaced in his daydreams by greedy licks and bites on hard-light skin. Granted, this could also be the natural progression of his lust.

“It’s only an hour to your next portion,” Rimmer offered from across the table.

Lister groaned and raised his head just in time to see lightning flash across the windscreen and illuminate Rimmer’s slightly dishevelled hair. He imagined running his fingers through it, with his mouth occupied elsewhere, warmth ever growing between their tightly pressed-together - he shook himself. “Distract me, _please_. Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, anything. Tell me about…” Lister groped for a sufficiently interesting topic. “Tell me about being Ace.”

Rimmer’s look went from fond to stony in two seconds flat. “It’s always _Ace_ with you, isn’t it?” he replied stiffly. Lister thought he saw a muscle jump in his cheek. “We’re aboard a crashed Starbug, and it’s raining. Ergo, it’s the perfect time to discuss Commander Pretty-Boy.”

Lister bit his lip; he hadn’t meant to offend. To him, the Ace stuff was a lifetime ago, all water under the bridge. “Rimmer, you are Ace,” he countered.

“Not anymore.”

“I wasn’t thinking of all that,” Lister assured as gently as he could. “I’m curious about _your_ time. You haven’t said much about it.”

Rimmer shrugged. “There’s not much to say.”

“What about all your lovers?”

Lister’s brain parsed the question about three seconds after it had left his mouth. Damn his empty stomach to hell! It was making him go peculiar. He didn’t _want_ to hear about the hundreds of damsels that Rimmer had no doubt rescued and bedded. Not right now. Conversation like that might be fun somewhere down the road, when trust had been established and they were snuggling happily, sharing long-held secrets - and there his mind went again, wandering off.

Fortunately, Rimmer agreed. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Unfortunately, he was stalking off toward the sleeping quarters before Lister could take back the question.

  


An hour later, Rimmer appeared in the doorway of the cockpit. “There you are, Listy! It’s time for your next, er, meal.” He felt much less cheerful than he sounded, but putting on a brave face seemed to be the thing to do.

Lister spun in his chair to look at him, a steaming mug in his hand. “I’ve already had it,” he said apologetically.

Rimmer was disappointed. Then again, what had he been going to do, sit and watch Lister slowly chew a tinned potato? “I see.” He flinched as Lister drained the (what looked to be) still-boiling tea and stood up. Now they were back where they’d been recently, standing barely an inch apart.

 _Why do you keep doing this?_ he wanted to ask. _Why do you act like you want something from me?_ He vaguely perceived a hand on his arm, heard boots stepping closer until one of them was between his feet, and all thoughts of interrogating Lister left him. Then something that felt very much like a soft mouth pressed briefly against his cheek, startlingly close to the corner of his own mouth. He readied his voice to - protest? encourage? There was no point. None of this could be real.

“Thanks for reminding me, though,” was whispered in the region of his ear. When he came back to himself, Lister was halfway up the stairs.

“…just remembered,” he was saying, as if nothing had happened (it probably hadn’t). “I had Kryten load a bunch of vids into the system in case we got bored, so we could pick up where we left off. Wanna join me?”

Rimmer refrained from pointing out the ridiculousness of stocking Starbug with vids but not food.

  


Lister was still glowing from his earlier spontaneity. This was cosy as well: sitting in the same bunk, almost shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip. Rimmer hadn’t recoiled either then or now, so that was a start.

About one minute into the episode, the glow was erased by a gnawing jealousy.

“Look at that fry-up,” he sighed. “Just look at it.”

“That guy doesn’t deserve it,” Rimmer mumbled. Lister realised he must be feeling the same pain even though he didn’t technically need food.

Some minutes later, they were both staring hungrily at the displays in The Kabin, barely conscious of the characters’ prattle.

“I’d kill for a cigarette, man. I could eat a whole packet.”

“Look, Mary’s got a biscuit.”

“Yeah…oh, for smeg’s sake, she’s not even eating it.”

“Pause,” Rimmer ordered firmly. “Lister, I can’t take much more of this.”

Lister shook his head in agreement. “Sorry. I thought it might distract me - us, but…” He glanced over at Rimmer with a guilty smile, saw how pretty his eyes were and how his tongue swiped across his lips, and decided to act. Carefully, _very_ carefully, he edged closer and tilted his head, almost resting it on Rimmer’s shoulder. He was too far gone, or possibly too hungry, to worry about rejection. Rimmer looked at him quizzically.

“We should kiss.” The words tumbled out as naturally as any “smeghead” or “git” ever had.

He tracked the changes in Rimmer’s expression with what felt like his last ounce of energy. First startled, then confused, hopeful, and - “You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” Lister exclaimed, injured.

“It’s just your hunger talking.”

“Rimmer, I promise I won’t try to eat you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was a supremely silly thing to say prior to the big moment, but it turned out not to matter. When their lips (finally, _finally_ ) met, the ship and everything else around them seemed to fall away and all that remained was _soft_ and _warm_ and _more_.

  


Rimmer awoke to the feel of a weight on his chest. Not heavy enough to be a person, although the smell reminded him of something. Someone.

He patted the leather jacket in gratitude. Lister had surely left it as a token, a reassurance that he hadn’t been rejected. He lay under its comforting heft for awhile longer, his mind full of ideas and questions about what to do next.

When he finally got himself down to the cockpit, he found Lister drinking tea at his station again.

“Ahem.”

Before he knew what was happening, Lister had put down the mug, walked over, and — this was the new, exciting bit — given him a hug and a kiss. “It’s stopped storming.”

“So I see.” Rimmer couldn’t see how that was relevant.

“Kryten’s picked up our signal. He’s on his way.”

“I see,” Rimmer repeated. That explained the empty tin he’d just noticed sitting on the console. He reverted to the brave face of the day before to cover his disappointment.

“So I think,” Lister said, seeing through the charade, “we should make the most of the time we’ve got. Don’t you?”

Rimmer most likely said _yes_ or something to that effect. His awareness, however, was concentrated on the hands sneaking under his blue tunic and the whispered request to take it off. Lister took it and threw it behind him, and it landed with a thump somewhere near Kryten’s work station. Then his hands were on Rimmer again, sliding over his sides through the thin shirt he was wearing under the tunic, moving ever lower as they kissed.

Kryten didn’t arrive in time to catch them with shirts pulled up and trousers pulled down, hands stroking and hips thrusting with an energy that was surprising in two people who’d hardly eaten anything for three days and nights. He didn’t see the way they half-fell back against the wall, overcome, or hear the sounds that accompanied their frantic final movements. It was for the best, really.

\------

Rimmer thought of those sweet stolen minutes as they moved together, mindful of the squeaking of the chair.

“We’re - going to make - s-such a mess,” he panted into Lister’s shoulder.

“I know,” Lister murmured. “We - we’ll clean - before - ” _Before the others wake up,_ Rimmer hoped, although it was increasingly hard to think about anything other than the furious pace of their coupling. Even with all the squeaking.

“I don’t think we can help it, you know,” Lister reflected as they walked back to their quarters later. “It’s something about being in a control room. That’s where it all - well, most things happened.”

Rimmer chuckled. “Right. Maybe we should get marooned more often.”

“We could.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, not marooned exactly, more like…out on our own. With supplies and everything…”

The next morning, Rimmer opened his eyes to see Lister poring over a series of diagrams. He couldn’t read the labels clearly from the bunk, but he was reasonably sure that one of them read _how to keep fire going_.


End file.
